The Moon Dwellers (8 page)

A part of me clin
g
s
to
the
hope that my father kept t
he photo there because he misses her, wants
to remember her, but
the more grown
-
up part of me kno
w
s
better.
Before my m
other vanished, there was no lo
ve between them.
It was purely another of my father’s business relationships, using my mother for the sole purpose of demonstrating stability at the top of the government.

At some point in my parents’ relationship there must have been love—at least from my mom’s side—but I don’t think it lasted ve
ry long.
As far back as I can
remember he had the young, scantily clad servant girls.
As a kid I thought they were just fun little helpers who giggled and helped my dad around the office.
Almost like elves.
That is one fantasy I wish
I hadn’t outgrown.
The truth i
s far too sickening.

Roc i
s
saying something.
“Huh?” I say
.

He repeats
himself.
“You know it wasn’t your fault.”

Roc’s wo
rds sound cryptic,
but
I know exactly what he’s
talking about.
My mother’s disappearance.
Two years ago, but still as
fresh in my memory as if it was
yesterday.

“I wasn’t thinking about that.”
Well, not really.
But it
is
on the fringe of my thought
s; it i
s
always there
. N
o matter if I am
think
ing about what to eat for lunch
, or
the next sword maneuver I will teach Roc, or even if I am
thinking about a girl, like the
one from today,
thoughts of my mom a
re there, buzzing about on the edge of my consciousness, su
ffocating my heart
.

“It doesn’t matter w
hat you were thinking,” Roc says
.
“I know you still blame yourself.”

I don’t want to talk about it, do
n’t want to dredge up the memories again—they
are too painful.
I am
fine
to just let her memory cling to the edges of my
mind
where maybe, just maybe, I wo
n’t have to face th
em.
Sometimes talking to Roc i
s like talking to a shrink, only with
out the
comfy couch to lie on.

“Not now, Roc,” I say
.

“Then when?” he asks
.

“Maybe ne
ver,” I say
honestly.

Roc stops, grabs
my s
houlders with both hands, forces
me t
o look at him.
His dark eyes a
re serious.
“Blaming yourself is like a curse eating you from within, a rogue virus, cancerous and poisonous.
It will drive you mad if you let it.
You’re my friend and I hate to see you like this.
And your mother would hate to see her disappearance cause you to self-destruct.”

I
expected Roc to say something cliché like
Blaming yourself won’t bring her back, Tristan
, but instead, his
words a
re like darts embeddin
g themselves in my chest.
I do
n’t want to let him do
wn.
Nor my mother.
But I can’t
help it.
The pain is
more than I can
bear.
The what
-
ifs
a
re
a cancer, like Roc said.
What if I was
a better son
?
What if I’
d stoo
d up to my father?
What if I’
d been with her on t
he day she disappeared, refusing
to let her out of my si
ght?
Would everything be
different then?
Would we be a happy little family?

I want to believe the answer i
s
yes
, b
ut in my heart I know it i
sn’
t so.
Accepting that fact will set me free.
But I ca
n’t…
or w
o
n’t.

Not that it
matters.
I will
hang on
to the what
-
ifs and continue to blame myself regard
less of whether I truly believe
I had any influence on the e
vents that
transpired.

There i
sn’t much
to believe in these days.
I
once believed in the love of a mother, but then
she left me.
I used to believe in honor, in chivalry,
in the power that one person has
to enact real
,
positive chan
ge in the world.
My mother
taught me al
l that.
It
vanished when she did.

Now all I believe in i
s pain.

Pain i
s the great equalizer, the cure to mental anguish, the a
ntidote for a hopeful heart.
It
co
me
s
in all different forms—physical, mental, emotiona
l, spiritual.
Most days I like
physical the best, choosing to throw myself into my training w
ith unbridled aggression.
I mak
e my challenges impossible, sometimes facing twenty or more opponents si
multaneously.
And because I am
the President’s son, the
y have to obey me, have
to attack
.
At first they’
re
timid, afraid to bruise me, but after taking a whack or two from the broadsid
e of my steel blade they change
, becoming more ferocious than attacking lions.

I still have
scars from those training sessions.

The beauty of physical pain i
s
that
it wipes
out the other forms of pain.
Not necessarily completely or for an extended period of time, but
long
enough to grant a reprieve from my tortured mind and soul.

“On guard!” Roc yells
, his teeth clenched
together like a wild beast
.
H
e
’s realized
I
’m not
going to spea
k to him about my mother.
I’m glad he’s
given up for the time being.
His new approach: beat it out of me.

I do
n’t eve
n have my weapon yet, but it does
n’t matter.
Roc’s clumsy
swings feel
like they
a
re in slow motion, coming in at awkward angles, without any atte
mpt to hide his intention
s
: he i
s goi
ng for my head.
He’s probably trying
to knock some sense into me.

He kno
w
s better than that—I’ve taught him better.
Feinting i
s as important as the actual att
ack.
Disguising one’s intent i
s
the
key to fighting
.
But he is on a mission.
I kno
w it
’s because he cares
about me—
wants
better for me—
that he i
s trying to crack me across the skull.

Not today.

I spi
n to the left and dro
p
to a roll, hearing Roc’s wooden blade crash thunderously into t
he wall behind me.
When I fight it’s like I have
eye
s in the back of my head.
I’m
looking in the other direction, reaching for my own practice
blade, grasping it, but I can picture
Roc’s blade rebounding off the wall, him r
epositioning his feet like I’ve
taught him, his next swing…

I whirl
around just in time, catching the tip of his sword low on my own.
Thud!
The sound is dull and wo
n’t c
arry past the walls.
We fi
ght with wooden practice swords
in the privacy of my room because no one can ever know I am
training my servant to fight.
It’
s nearly as effective as using metal practic
e swords out in the yard—I can
teach him the proper technique, the f
ootwork, the positions—but I kno
w
at some point we will
need to find a place to pract
ice with real
swords.
If he i
s to get any better, that is.

Instinct takes
over.
That and years of the highest quality training that money can buy.
Witho
ut thinking,
I bend
my knees, st
raighten my back, keep
my hips
aligned with my shoulders.
Roc
attempt
s
to do the same, but i
n the wall
-
length mirror I can see that next to me he looks
amateurish, awkward.

I’m not
being
va
in.
Just realistic.
Roc needs
lots
of work
on his posture.
I can
help with
that.
But not today.
Today i
s about passionate fightin
g.
At least for Roc.
Me, I’m
calm, unemotiona
l, businesslike.
Just like I’
ve
been taught.

I easily parry
Roc’s next three attempts at taking my head off, and
then duck
the fourth, moving in close to his body and elbowing him hard in the chest.
One of the most important lessons in sword fighting—
especially for
real, life or death, fight-like-there’s-no-tomorrow sword fighting—is to use all parts of your body.
Most people assume that because you have a pointy sword you should use it ex
clusively
.
Not so.

With a grunt, Roc goes
down
hard.
Lucky for him he crashes
onto my bed,
ruffling the perfectly ironed
red comforter.
One thing Roc has going for him i
s his athleticism.
While not trained in the art of f
ighting, or of swordplay, he has
a nat
ural speed and quickness that i
s particularly effective on the defensive si
de.
His speed temporarily saves
him from another defeat at my hands.

After crushing him with my elbow, I
continue
surging
forward, following him onto the bed and attempting to get the point of my dull wooden blade under his chi
n and against his neck, which i
s the requisite for victory.

He
recovers
beautifully, executing a graceful backwa
rds roll, and manages to maintain
his grip on
the sword.
He lands
on his feet on the other side of the bed, grinn
ing slightly.
His
brown
skin i
s shining with sweat under the soft lantern glow.
Outstretchin
g his off-sword hand, he flicks his fingers back
toward
himself, as if to say
, “C’mon, bring it!”

I bring it.
I launch
mysel
f over the bed, pointing my sword
forwa
rd like a battering ram.
Roc i
s forced
to jump backwards, which allows
me to
land on
my feet and
go on the offensive.
I feint
hard to th
e left and Roc completely buys it.
When I go right he’s left exposed.
I connect
sharply
under his ribs and then whip
a leg behind his knees, sweeping him off his feet.
He s
mashes
onto his back, losing his sword
in the process.
When he reaches for it, I step
on
the wooden blade
.